


I might not be your cup of tea, but I'm your 10th shot of Firewhisky

by phrynne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Casual Sex, Clubbing, Drinking, Falling In Love, Firewhisky (lots of), Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pansy & Hermione are power couple, Pansy Granger-Parkinson is a badass, Post-War, but then it's not, lots of fire metaphors, lots of tea metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: In which Harry is a bit of a playboy (or so Draco thinks);Draco is head over heels in love with him (but Harry doesn’t know);And Pansy has had quite enough of their bulshit, thank you very much.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Other(s), Harry Potter/Other(s), Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 342





	I might not be your cup of tea, but I'm your 10th shot of Firewhisky

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there :) I've been suffering from major writer's block all through this hellish year. Also, anxiety & ptsd & depression all suck and they suck even more during a pandemic. I spent months writing this on and off to cheer myself up. Self-deprecating Draco is mainly me. Also, fandom-Pansy has my heart. It's my first time writing her. Pansy/Hermione is my second fav ship ever.
> 
> But don't worry, drarry fans, this is all about our fav boys. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta, Cláudia. 
> 
> Character's are borrowed from JKR - I just put my spin on them. And because it's needed, I'm gonna write here: trans women are women, trans men are men. Trans rights are human rights. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this one.

It will end in heartbreak. That much is certain. 

Let me tell you how it starts.

He comes over to me, up close & personal.

Hand sliding up my thigh.

So self-assured. 

He touches me like I’m his fucking property, mouth dropping words into my ear, slow decadence. He tells me: 

‘I might not be your cup of tea. But we both know I'm your 10th shot of Firewhisky.’

And really, there’s no finesse to it. As far as pickup lines go, it’s pretty crass. And yet. 

_Yet_.

 _We both know_ , he’s not wrong.

See, Harry Potter, right bastard that he is, is also, to put it plainly, quite _right_. 

For he could never be a cup of tea.

Now, my last boyfriend, Andrew… he was the perfect cup of tea. He wasn’t exactly warm & steady Earl Grey. He was more like a mild & tasteless camomile. Good for my nerves, but, oh, was he bland. 

Andrew was good. Safe. My chance of a future, even if a rather boring one. The engagement ring he gave me was a thing of beauty. Single diamond in a golden band. A bold choice for him, let me tell you. Say what you will about Andrew, but he has great taste (he wanted me, after all). Only the best for you, he’d said, kneeling at my feet in his perfect Armani suit. He was also a reasonable man; quite understanding when I told him that I needed to think about it. You should take your time, dear. So I did. Take my time, I mean. 

Three hours and ten shots of Firewhisky later, I was taking my time alright. Namely, by sucking Harry Potter’s cock, in a rather dreary & dirty bathroom stall, with no thought to spare for Andrew, expensive diamond rings or the world at large. 

And Potter proved to be the farthest thing from a cup of tea. Better than any drink or recreational potion I’ve ever had. And believe me, I’ve had plenty. 

He was explosive magic & massive hangovers & corrosive guilt. 

Unabashedly wrong for me in every way. 

A perfect cocktail of fire & madness. 

He felt — still feels — like liquid fire in my veins. That is why I take him late into the night with copious amounts of alcohol. You know, to ease my descent into hell, where I’m sure to be burning in the afterlife — or so the Muggle lore says. 

He was also a well-cast _Incendio_ to my engagement. 

I might be a cheater, but after the War I learned my lesson: lying corrupts you to your core. I came clean to Andrew. Unsurprisingly, he called me a disgusting bastard + a waste of his precious time. I couldn’t exactly disagree with either of these notions. He took the ring back. I have never seen it or him ever since. Mother was rightfully distraught by the news, but at least I kept my status as a disappointing son (points for coherence?). 

‘Are we leaving already?’ 

Like the best kind of drug, Potter finds me at my weakest. He says this as he moves right into my personal space, body warm & wired from dancing. I can almost taste the heat of his chosen hookup for the night on him. But I don’t miss the fact that he’s left the bloke he’d been pinning against a wall for hours, to walk all the way across the club and stand this close to me. 

He stares at the glass of Firewhisky in my hand and I know he knows exactly how many I’ve had. His smirk is blatantly bold & perceptive. One of his eyebrows goes up. That’s my trademark, so obviously I take offense. 

‘You assume too much.’ I say pointedly. 

But really, he doesn’t.

I swallow the last of my drink, allowing for it to fire down my throat, right as Potter laughs in my ear, light & easy, and signals the bartender with two fingers up. New glasses are set between us.

‘Buy me a drink and I put out, is that it?’ I say in my best bored tone, even as I pick up the glass and give the golden-bronze liquid a swirl. 

Sounding bored is a skill I’ve honed my entire life. Too bad Harry Potter seems to have developed full immunity to it. Even worse, he seems to get off on it. 

I shiver when his fingers unexpectedly brush against my cheek, catching a stubborn strand of my hair. He tucks it behind my ear, all sweet & too close. Yet, he says nothing at all.

‘I’m not that cheap, Potter.’ I add, filling in the charged silence.

It’s a downright lie. I’m the cheapest when it comes to him. In fact, I’m easy. Other blokes might chase me for weeks before I say yes to something more than a blow job. Andrew chased me for months, until I agreed to a date. 

Potter doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even need this, whatever this is. The buying of drinks, the sweet talking me, the questioning touches that really are more on the side of affirmative. And the worst is, he knows. He knows I’m deflecting, playing difficult. He is plainly aware of it & he also knows that I hate him for it. 

Not that he wants to date me. He just wants to fuck me, that much is evident. But I hate to know that I would say yes to everything... anything.

‘You’re the farthest thing from cheap, Draco.’ He finally says, voice quiet & deep, each word drawn out clearly like a charm. 

I hate the power in his voice, the thing that keeps reminding me of exactly who he is, what he means to everyone in our world. What he will always mean to me. 

He takes a slow swig of his Firewhisky. I watch as he swallows. I can’t breathe.

‘It’s all just a game to you.’ I mutter. I never meant to say that & for a moment I think he didn’t catch it, the music way too loud, pressing up around us. But he is close, gaze right on my lips. Something bright flashes in his eyes. I can’t read him. He glances at the dance floor, where anonymous bodies move under the flashing lights.

‘You mean them?’ He shrugs, turns his eyes back to me. His face is half shadow, half rainbow lights. His mouth forms half a teasing smile.

‘Yeah. Definitely a game.’ He says. 

I pick up my glass, take a long, drawn-out swallow, willing the drink to burn through everything I’m feeling. The music seeps through my skin, a current of thrumming noise & heat. His closeness is unbearable, a pull of gravity so strong it takes everything I have to resist it. I’m sick of his games, sick of being pushed & pulled at his will. 

I should leave now. I could have anyone on that dance floor. And he knows it. 

‘We’re not here to have a casual chat.’ He presses on. I shudder at the slight undertone of impatience in his voice. 

‘I’m here to have a drink.’ I say stiffly. 

‘You had ten.’

‘Someone’s been paying attention.’

‘What can I say…’ He smiles. I quickly look away. ‘Old habits die hard.’

 _Old crushes, apparently, die harder_.

Harry Potter is my drug of choice. 

And he’s done talking. He’s done waiting. 

So when he moves again, there’s no hesitation, no doubt. He grabs me like I’m there for the taking. That’s when it hits me. The heartbreaking bit. I know he’s going to break my heart when this — whatever this is — ends. Because it will. 

I know I’ll be broken, in the same way I know the startling fact of his tongue parting my lips, sliding into my mouth. His hands go around my neck, he pulls me gently down to him. My heart clenches in a painful way, everything sways, dissolves around me, nothing beyond the hard fact of him — as he kisses me for the first time, fire & whisky on his tongue. 

The club is dark, noisy, too crowded & completely gone as he kisses me deep & desperate, backing me up against the counter. I realise, in the pit of my stomach, that I am going to fall for him. That in fact I already am — _I am falling for him_ , certain as all the other certain things in the world. Like the sun rising tomorrow; like time passing; like the fact that we’re all going to die in the end. Even those of us who have died before & came back to save the world, yes, even him, one day, he is going to die and, if I don’t die first, I will be in love with him up until then. 

_Oh._

Our lips part, his hand climbs up to my face. Everything is warm. He touches that strand of my hair again, like he needs to make sure it’s real. 

I’m not sure any of this is real. 

He looks completely different from the playboy or the hero. Like I’m meeting him for the first time, even though we’ve known each other our whole lives. He seems about to say something, but stops himself. Weirdly, I feel I’m about to cry. He leans in closer, brushes his mouth against my lips again. 

‘Come to mine, Draco.’ 

He practically sighs my name. I practically drink it down. 

He doesn’t say _please_ , but I hear the pleading in the way his body leans into mine, in the sudden catch of his breath, in the passing shadow of his eyes. It is only fitting that he once saved me from a wild Fiendfyre, so that he could burn me himself in one of his own creation. 

I don’t answer, don’t even nod. I just let him take my hand and drag me to the back door. 

Because yes, I’m the only one of his hookups he feels the need to hide from the press. The usual flock of reporters & photographers waiting for him outside by the front door of the club. I’m the only one he doesn’t want to be seen with; the only one of his pickups whose shady picture won’t be plastered to the frontpage of every wizarding newspaper the next day. Because he’s ashamed of being seen with me. Ashamed of me. Disgusted, even.

I’m his dirty secret. 

***

That first time he kissed me was not the beginning, but rather the point of no return. The moment he became inevitable. 

It begins way before that kiss. 

The first time it happens, we don’t kiss. In fact, we don’t even speak to each other. 

We’re anonymous bodies, drunk on alcohol & bad blasting music. Except there’s nothing anonymous about us. He knows exactly who I am when he grinds against me. I know exactly who he is when he feels me up. That doesn’t stop us from playing the game every lonely stranger plays in clubs like this. We let the crowd & the flashing lights render us unknown. We dance the night away, bodies pressed up to each other, closer than we’ve ever been. He feels both familiar & strange, his scent addictive, his body pliant & strong, hands intent on committing every hard ridge & every soft spot of my body to physical memory. That’s how I become another one of the pretty boys he likes to pin to a wall. He kisses up my neck, but when I try to reach for his mouth, he denies me, turning his face away. I’ve seen him kiss enough blokes on this same dancefloor to notice the difference in treatment. I feel dirty & wrong, but even that feels strangely right. He smiles at me, a secret smile, meant for my eyes only, everything about it so unsettling. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, then part on a sweet exhale that makes my head spin. 

I let him tug at my hand, drag me through a throng of sweaty bodies, pull me up against a bathroom stall, wandlessly bolt the door & effortlessly go down on his knees. That’s when I sober up fast to find myself standing on a ledge about to leap, free falling into the abyss of deep, deep green eyes. 

I should have known it, then. He’s always been there for me, lingering on the side of impossible things. Kneeling on the dimly lit bathroom, he makes quite the picture. Hair rumpled from my hands, white shirt clinging to his chest, a thin sheen of sweat over his brow, the faint traces of the famous lightning scar still visible. I resist the shameful urge to touch it with my fingers. 

He looks up at me, silent, chest heaving softly & I am pretty sure this is not how a casual hookup is supposed to go. He blinks, swallows, then his eyes focus on my crotch & I forget what I was thinking. It is all very fast afterwards. I think I’m already coming, but instead I’m clutching at his hair, fucking his willing mouth, warm & sweet & hungry, his palm spreading over my hip, fingers brushing my belly, keeping me vertical, as I sink further down his throat. I come, I’m coming, he has his eyes open as he drinks me down like I’m the last in his row of drinks, the only drink he’s been really craving. 

When he finally leans back, I feel faint, black spots in my vision. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Bites his lip. My hands are shaking, the dirty grey tiles of the bathroom floor filling up my vision, as my gaze slides over to his. He’s still kneeling at my feet, breathing hard & I cannot, for the life of me, move. He lifts a hand, his magic washes over me, cleaning me wandlessly & nearly setting my nerves on fire again. He tucks me back in & he looks up, assessing me. One of his fingers softly eases a crease in my trousers. It is not a sexual touch, but it is still a fully blown shock to my body. I grapple at the wall behind me. I’m no longer drunk, I think, but I don’t know what is going on. This is far from my first blow job in a dingy bathroom, nor do I intend it to be the last, but it’s like the script got all scrambled up. 

I keep waiting for him to get up, to stand back against the opposite wall & wait for me to return the favour. I would too. I more than want to. But he does nothing of the sort. This would be the perfect time for me to sneer & say something caustic, but he’s still kneeling at my feet, looking up & I can’t think of a single thing to say, sarcastic or otherwise. His eyes avidly rake my body, starting at the tips of my shoes, climbing up my legs, sliding over my crotch, along my belly & chest & up my neck, only stopping when he finds me looking at him. So much for the pretence of anonymity. It’s like he’s binding us both to this memory. His mouth curves into a sweet smile. I realise that he is probably playing me, like he does with all of the others. The ones he drags home every night, making increasingly shrewd headlines in the next morning papers. The Golden Boy’s love life has proven to be an endless source of income for wizarding media all over Britain. Or rather, sex life — I don’t think love has much to do with it. I’ve just become another one of his conquests. I know this, but can’t make myself look away. 

He finally stands up. I have an inch on him, give or take. I never noticed this before, but I do now because he’s so close, leaning even closer. Seemingly realising the same thing, he tilts his head up slightly & his lips brush my cheek. My breath catches. The shiver starts there, on the point of contact & runs me down. He is warm & too real. 

He unbolts the door & leaves. 

***

After that, we play this game. 

I pretend to not be interested in him & he pretends to be interested in everyone else but me.

He keeps hitting the frontpage of every wizarding publication, a different man on his arm every night. Meanwhile, I party all night, play the unavailable-distant type to everyone who approaches me, sometimes getting a blow job out of it, just for the sake of watching the hard look on his face when I leave with someone else. I drink my way to an early coffin & watch as he hits on every good-looking blonde he finds, his body pinning them like flies on the wall. Not that they’re not willing, oh so willing. He only leaves the club with them when I tell him no. Sometimes, I deny him for the pure, unadulterated pleasure of seeing his reaction, the rigid set of his jaw, the tense shrug of his shoulders, the curl of his lips in a smile I’ve come to cherish, as he leans in closer & whispers in my ear: 

_‘As you wish, Draco.'_

I have no shortage of offers. Our favourite gay club is one of the few where Wizards and Muggles mix freely, without breaking the non-disclosure laws. The owners are Wizards, hence the available Firewhisky, which the Muggles think is just a very intense, very expensive, secret-recipe whisky. Anyway, by the end of the night everyone’s way too much wasted to spare a thought for the types of alcohol they’re ingesting. The best thing about this club is that most men here are Muggles & Muggles don’t give a crap about my surname. In fact, they don’t even care about my name. Names are not very important after 2 am and they grow increasingly unimportant as the night progresses. Or at least they should, because no matter how much I drink, or how many blokes want in my pants, at the end of the night there’s still only one name stuck in my head. 

Then there’s that fateful Saturday night. Potter has the nerve to walk up to me, leaving his blonde-for-the-night standing there, not ten feet away, waiting for him while he hits on me. 

‘You’re nothing if consistent.’ I say dryly. 

I refuse to look at Potter, but somehow I know he’s smiling at me. 

‘He does remind me of a younger you…’ He says. ‘Minus the Death Eater act-’ Potter gives a wry laugh, like the jerk that he is, tilting his head in the general direction of the bloke. ‘But then again, you were never really that good at playing bad.’ 

I don’t even care for a retort. I also don’t have to look back to confirm any of it. Potter’s type is not exactly a state secret. It’s the infinite source of some questionable in-depth longform journalism, all of it to describe a rather simple set of characteristics: tall, blonde, gay. Pretty boys with pretty faces that look good on their knees & run their mouths every chance they get. 

To put it simply: his type is me. 

‘We’re heading for his place, unless-’ Potter presses on.

‘Fuck off.’ Is what I tell him. 

Right about now, I’m wondering why the precious Golden Boy didn’t get sorted into Slytherin House, cause he sure hits all the requirements. He knows exactly how to play me.

‘Is that what you really want, Draco?’

He’s so close I can see the shape of his mouth forming the blunt words. He’s taken to calling me Draco, instead of Malfoy. He does it in & out of bed. It’s annoying & incredibly appealing & it fucking unhinges me. 

‘Will you shut the fuck up?’ I snap. 

I’m too aware of the fact that the other bloke is still waiting several steps away, out of ear shot, but clearly watching his supposed date hitting on another man. 

Indifferent to all of it, Potter leans over the counter, peers over at my nearly finished drink. I see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. The scent of his aftershave is maddening. 

‘Make me shut up. ‘Cause you know you can.’

This is getting ridiculous. Playing the same script every night, but somehow it never gets boring. Rather, it sends my body into a frenzy. I fucking hate it.

I feel a sense of sudden resolve settling over me. I grit my teeth.

‘I already told you-’

He must have felt it too. For he touches my wrist. His first touch of the night is always a shock. An ignition. I can’t make myself not react to it. My hand shakes slightly under his. He takes notice, of course he does.

‘One word from you…’ he says, warm fingers circling my wrist. ‘I’ll drop him right this second. You know I will.’

I pretend to consider it, when in fact there’s nothing to consider. Potter doesn’t want to go home with that Muggle, no matter how hot he is, no matter how much he’d look good sucking Potter’s cock, no matter how much he looks like me. No matter how much they _all_ look like me. I’m the real deal. Potter knows it, I know it. He’d even admit it out loud if I’d ask him. The thing about Potter is... he never tells lies. He simply knows how to work the truth to his favour. 

He wants me. And my body has always had a prefered choice of poison. 

I drain the rest of my Firewhisky, enjoying the burn down my throat. I set the glass on the counter. Ten drinks. 

‘Meet me outside.’ It comes out of my mouth like an order. 

I turn away, not waiting for a reaction. I don’t need one. He will follow me, I know it at my very core. 

I walk past the bloke still waiting for him. He does look like a two years younger version of me. Too innocent. The poor thing slants me a very satisfied look. He thinks he’s won. I’d pity him. But that would mean I think myself better than him, which I don’t. At least he has an excuse. He doesn’t know Potter like I do. 

I reach the back door. Outside, I light a cigarette & slowly reach the Apparition spot behind the bar, our usual rendezvous. As predicted, I barely have to wait. A minute later, I hear his steps on the sidewalk.

‘Did he cry?’ I ask, as I take a slow drag of my cigarette.

Potter comes up behind me, body a hard line right at my back. I tense, he exhales, breath warm on my neck. He extends his hand, fingers sliding alongside mine, holding the cigarette, lifting it up to his mouth. I turn in time to watch as his lips close over the place mine were barely a second ago. 

He takes a slow drag, head tilting back. He exhales a little cloud of smoke. 

‘He said I was shit.’

He drops the cigarette down to the floor.

He looks right at me. I can see that he doesn’t give a single fuck. He stopped caring after the War. It shouldn’t be so hot, but it is. Because I’m the exception. All those blokes can throw themselves at his feet. He’ll turn them all down for another taste of me. And he’s had me before. He’s had me plenty. 

‘He’s not wrong.’ I say, because I can. 

He already knows what I think of him. We’re not doing _this_ out of mutual admiration or infatuation. I have no idea what we’re doing this out for. Lust. Masochism. Self-deprecation. Three gods on the altar of my self-destruction. 

I bring the dark tip of my boot forward, putting out the cigarette. He brings a warm hand to the small of my back & just like that our bodies slant together. 

‘What does that say about your taste in men?’ He asks.

I take one breath of him, my head spins. I want to answer that my taste in men is just fine. Andrew was fine. Potter is the problem. I had a little taste of him all those months ago & I just can’t seem to get enough of it. 

‘Put up some spells, do me here,’ I say instead. Like I just want to get it over with, when in fact I never want it to end. Like it always does. Like it always will.

‘Not this time.’ His tone is unflinching. His thumb brushes over my lip. It is so hard to breathe. ‘I want you on a bed. I want to take my time.’

Of course he does. He never makes this easier. No matter how much I need it to be casual, it never is. I look into his eyes. The pull of his gravity, it wins over everything. Even self-preservation. I can lie all I want with my words, but my body speaks the truth & if there’s something Potter can read is my body, every shift, every sigh, every fucking weakness. His hand drags over my hips. His fingers curl on the hoops of my trousers. I know what’s coming. We’re pressed chest to chest, we’re both slowly getting hard. His mouth is right there, lips parted. They move softly over my cheek, then closer & closer to where I want them. He places a kiss, open mouthed, right at the corner of my lips. It’s absurd, the effect it has over me. My mouth chases his, my hands are shaking, he laughs, evading my tentative kiss. He loves to drive me mad with it. Toying with my desire for him, making me burn in a slow deep fire. He drags his mouth over my jaw, biting lightly. I’ve seen him kiss man after man at the damned club. But not me, no. After that first time, he only kisses me when I’m so crazy with it that I’m crying out his name, begging him. Begging for anything. 

‘Apparate us, Draco.’ He says finally, voice rough. I like that he also sounds a bit unhinged. 

He takes my hand in his, kisses it in an almost gentlemanly way. The gesture is so at odds with what we’re doing, with what we are, that I hate him all the more for it. Love him all the more for it. I suppress a shiver.

Harry Potter… he’s going to ruin me.

***

It’s an excruciating drop into the fire. 

He has spent half an hour kissing me everywhere. On the nape of my neck. Over my clavicule. On the place where my hips meet my thighs, then on the place my thighs meet my arse. On the inside of my thighs. On the inside of my fucking elbows. Behind my knees. On my armpits, for fucks sake. I never knew anyone who got off on that, but he seems to like it, the same way he seems to like kissing me anywhere. Except on my mouth. He saves that for later. 

I don’t know why or when I start to cry. I just realise it’s happening when his tongue reaches my hole. I collapse on the bed, biting into the pillow to keep the sounds in. He eats me out like I’m his favourite dessert. He is in no rush to move things forward, in fact, he could probably do this the rest of the night. Make me come like this, without ever touching my dick, without even fingering me. The idea makes me feel like I’m going mad, my brain screaming things I’d never say, terrible things like _Harry, please, please_ \- over & over again. 

I’m in so deep that I barely notice that he’s stopping, turning me around, coming up above me. He looks like a fucking god. A debauched, gorgeous, gay god, swollen mouth & wet lips, a teasing smile under dark green eyes. A hard cock nudging against my hip. He leans over me. His breath tastes of me. 

‘Say it again,’ he urges, eyes intent on my face.

It catches me off guard, of course it does. 

‘What?’

The look he gives me is half perfect satisfaction, half perfect challenge. 

‘You were saying my name… begging me. I want to hear it again.’

I hate his honesty. But I hate myself more for letting myself slip every time. I close my eyes. It’s the only way I can pretend he’s not looking at me like he is now. Like he knows me inside & out. 

‘Did I say you could look away, Draco?’

My eyes snap open almost instantly. 

‘Kiss me, you bastard,’ I say. 

My whole body is burning, my face all wet. I can hear my own heartbeat, a loud frantic beating against my ribs, like something about to burst out of control. And he hasn’t fucked me yet. This is what he does to me.

‘How desperate are you?’ he asks, bringing my wrists up above my head & keeping them there, trapped. 

The feeling is exhilarating. I’m confined under him, no place to hide from his eyes, from his ever invading questions. I’d usually fight him over this. I’d struggle & distract him with my body, until he caved in & fucked me. But this time, I can’t. My hard cock is lodged against his. But it doesn’t matter, because my desperation has nothing to do with how hard I am. It has to do with him, with the admission he wants to force out of me.

‘You never do this with the others,’ I say, my voice cracking weirdly. 

It’s not what I meant to say & it’s not what he was expecting either. He exhales a little breath. It’s his time to pretend:

‘What do you mean?’

I don’t even think it first, I say it:

‘You kiss them, then you fuck them.’ 

For the first time, I see caution in his eyes. He gives a tiny, unbelieving laugh.

‘What can I say, Draco… You’re special,’ he says & for a second he’s the one to look away. It is not exactly a lie, but it is also so far from the truth I can practically put my finger on the space it opens up.

‘I think it’s because you want it so badly. It scares you.’ I say this in a rush. I regret it instantly, but the damage is done. 

He stares at me. I’m winning with my words, but he’s still winning with his body, his hands pressing down on my wrists. If he moves, all my words will vanish. One little grind of his hips & I’ll be gone. I’m breathing hard, waiting for it. For the moment where he doesn’t say anything, but wins by fucking me so hard everything else is rendered meaningless. 

‘You’re right,’ he says, without moving. Quite suddenly there’s not enough space between us, my pulse beating wildly still trapped in his hands. ‘I want it so badly... it almost kills me.’ 

He looks haunted. And I know, deep inside, that this is the complete truth. 

Someone needs to break this spell. One of us needs to say something to defuse this. Something mocking, something spiteful. But none of us does. 

Instead he drops his forehead to mine, lips sliding soft & sweet over mine. He breathes me in & I’m shaking, his stubble rubbing my cheek & then his mouth covers mine. It isn’t like any other kiss. It is slow, drawn out of me like something I would never let show, but can’t stop. I moan inside his mouth & he answers me with a strangled groan. It is wrong, so wrong, to kiss him like this. My hands are now free to cradle his face. My fingers brush his hair. I wanted sex, I wanted surrender, I wanted him to overpower me, to make me feel like I can’t escape him, like I’m not in control & he has done it, but it’s all wrong. He’s giving me the sort of kiss that drifts into smaller, much more dangerous kisses. It’s the sort of kiss shared between lovers. Every time he eases back he looks at me with those haunted eyes, scared & hopeful.

I can’t stand it, I am unable to stand this look on his face, like he’s about to say something he won’t be able to take back. He’s about to drive us both over some line we’ve silently decided never to cross. I can’t let him. Can’t follow him beyond that line. His breath catches, he’s about to say it. I shut him up by kissing him desperately. It’s inevitable, the way my lips fall open, the way his eyes fall closed & everything he was going to say dissolves into my mouth. I allow myself the kiss I always wanted to give to him. Wide open, filled with a terrible, shameful need that I would never show to anyone else, something reserved only for him, taken from years & years of impossible yearning, maddening regret. I want him to take me & he does take. He takes everything, he tears me apart, his tongue fucking my mouth, his cock sliding against mine, his fingernails scratching over my back, finding purchase there. I am aching & open, pulling him in, my whole face wet with tears. We’re covered in sweat, both grunting & tearing each other apart. He grips my arse, rolls us both so that I’m standing on top of him. 

‘Please, Draco.’

It’s a desperate whisper. I have no idea what he’s begging me for. He brings his fingers to my face. His touch is no longer sexual, but something else. Something I can’t allow myself to feel for him. I bat his hand away, protection & cleaning spells fast on the tip of my tongue. I lift my hips up. I don’t want any lube, I want the burn & the ache. I sink down on his cock. It takes several tries, it’s messy, it hurts, but I don’t care for any of it. I want to feel him. I want my body to remember this. 

He tries to grab my hips, but I stop him, force his arms down on the mattress. I am in charge, for the first time since this started. He has fucked me in every position, but never like this. He looks up at me like I’m the god on his altar. He doesn’t know it’s the other way around. This is why we can never work. It is never a good idea to want someone on an altar. 

I move over him, finding my own rhythm, chasing my pleasure. His fingers curl on the sheets. His eyes are wide & wet. I have never wanted him this much. I bring my hand to his chest & ride him, slow, slow, slower. He trembles underneath me, his neck corded. He bites on his lip, delaying the moment as much as he can. He looks drunk on me. 

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says, out of breath. 

I know I am. I feel it, too. Every man I ever slept with tells me that. But he’s nothing like them. He says it like a prayer, like a sacred truth.

He feels so good inside me. I’m flying & anchored down to the earth at the same time. I can take on anything, even if I’m only taking his cock, even if he doesn’t belong to me. I bring my mouth over his. 

‘Fuck me, Harry.’

It’s as if I’ve flipped a switch. His hands come up to my hips, he grinds up & insane pleasure flares up inside me. I start to come the second he kisses me, fucking me hard & good. The kiss is endless, his mouth no longer leaves mine, I’m shaking, my orgasm ripping through me, shattering me, I stop listening, stop seeing, but his mouth is still on mine. I come up for air. 

‘Draco, I-’

I bring myself down on him. His orgasm cuts through whatever he was going to say. He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And he’s not mine, he can never be mine.

He’s still coming when I realise it. I need to end it. Before it’s too late. 

***

That night, when he leaves, I take my wand & rework the wards of my apartment, in order to keep him out. When I’m all done, I collapse. Tears of rage, of need, of shame. My body trembles under the heat of the shower. I crumble in the bath, water dripping on my back, my throat closing up, alcohol & desperation. 

I promise myself: I’m not going to see him again.

A week goes by. Two. I don’t go back to the club. I call in sick & get a leave of absence, so I don’t have to cross paths with him at the Ministry. I don’t answer his calls. Or his Firecalls. I refuse every one of his owls, without even opening the envelopes, simply burning them to ashes. For good measure, I also avoid everyone else. I don’t leave my house. I ignore Pansy & Blaise. They know me far too well, it would only take them one good look at me to know the full truth. I drink. A lot. I start as soon as I wake up & keep going, easing the days away. I take every numbing potion I can get my hands on. I stay as intoxicated as I can, as far away from reality as I can.

So of course one day I wake up, hungover & plastered on my sofa, to find my best friend standing in the middle of my living room, gazing down at me. I blink & try to get up. I only manage to curl awkwardly on the sofa. Again I question my decision of allowing Pansy to Apparate directly into my home. I guess it’s the sort of privilege that comes with the best friends package. 

I’m actually surprised I managed to keep her away this long.

‘Morning.’ I say, or rather I try to. 

I realise I haven’t used my voice in over two weeks so it comes out in a very dry rasp. 

‘It’s the middle of the afternoon, Draco.’ 

Her voice is as bright as her fancy Cartier eyewear flashing back at me. Pansy waves her wand in a precise motion & my curtains come open on the other side of the living room. I lift my hand up in front of my eyes, to block the sudden blazing light. Pansy drops her Chanel purse on the center table with a clatter. She’s dressed impeccably, of course, in a tight black embroidered dress (Hermès? Dior?). The fact that I no longer can tell Muggle luxury designer clothing apart goes to show how deeply I’ve fallen. I catch sight of a perfectly manicured hand, long vibrant dark green nails. I would compliment her on that, if my tongue wasn’t currently glued to the roof of my mouth.

‘You look like shit.’ She sentences. 

Since I feel like shit, I might as well look the part too. For the first time in my life I’m not able to put up a façade. It is strangely liberating. 

I watch as her eyes make a slow tour of the room I’ve been living in. Discarded Kleenexes, several bottles of Firewhisky, half empty flasks of potions, dirty glasses everywhere. It’s like watching a stranger’s life through another’s eyes. I watch her eyebrows go up. Her eyeliner is on point, as per usual. Her nose wrinkles slightly. 

‘How's the withdrawal going, Draco?’ She asks, a hint of a smile on her burgundy lips.

I shrug.

‘It was just a couple of potions and drinks-’ My words come out slurred. I seem to have lost the ability to speak.

‘I wasn’t talking about your proclivities for Firewhisky, Draco.’ She eyes the table, the several open flasks. ‘Or your preference for recreational use of potions, although this-’ She waves her hand. 

I find my own voice, or sort of. 

‘Oh, spare me the judgement, Pans,’ I finally manage to sit down on the sofa. I pull a pillow over my lap, hugging it for comfort. I try for a dignified, even if slightly deranged look. ‘It’s not like you don’t enjoy them as much as I do.’

She gives a small laugh, turning her bright gaze to me. 

‘Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m saving all my judgement for your Potter addiction. Or should I say favourite brand of poison? Atrocious hair, body like sin, fucks every pretty boy that looks like you?’

I feel my cheeks heating up with something like shame. 

‘Only when I tell him no.’

I have no idea why I sound like I’m defending him, when I know she’s right. Potter’s a playboy. Not that there’s anything wrong with being promiscuous per se. I just wish he didn’t fuck with my head. Pansy gives me her classical dry laugh. 

‘Well, how romantic. I’m sure he’ll be asking to have your babies soon.’ 

‘Stop it.’

She puts on her best mock-shy look. 

‘Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy and I’ve been Potter-free for 2 weeks.’

‘I don’t- have- a Potter-’ I stop myself. 

There’s no point in denying it. Pansy knows me better than anyone. She’s known me since forever. Trying to lie to her is a waste of everyone’s time. If there’s one thing we Slytherins hate is wasting time. And bad coffee. And Golden Boys who fuck with our heads. But mostly that last one. There, I said it. Or thought it, whatever.

Pansy sighs. She drops down on the sofa, reaches for the bottle of Firewhisky. The smell is enough to remind me of him. I wonder why I chose this exact drink to forget him. I watch in silence as my best friend Accioes a clean glass from the kitchen & fills her glass with two neat fingers of whisky. She takes a sip, looking pensieve. 

‘He's playing you, hon. And you're letting him.’

She’s assuming I’m able to do such things as let him. It’s more like I can’t stop him. Can’t say no to him, which in itself is a problem. Consent & all that shit. I know the drill & didn’t have any problems with the word _no_ until he came along. Instead of explaining, I chose the most obvious lie.

‘It’s just sex, Pans.’ 

She pins me down with a stare over the rim of her glass. 

‘There’s nothing “just” about you having sex with _Harry James Potter_. If anything, it gave you something to hope for.’

I hate that she always says his name like this. I can practically hear the italics on it. But whatever, she’s right. I don’t know when it all went wrong. When did sex became this enormous thing opening up to the abyss? 

Pansy sets her glass on the only empty, neat spot on the table. She looks at me and, shit, she really looks worried. I hate it when she looks worried. 

‘I’m not seeing him again,’ I say in a whisper. I let the truth of it settle over me & it’s too much. It feels like something heavy is sitting on my chest & crushing me. 

She seems to understand this intuitively, like she always does. She sits back, smiles sadly at me & I bring my head to her lap, closing my eyes. She pets my hair gently. I’m about to sob all over her perfect dress & she doesn’t even care. That’s true friendship, right there. 

Her touch brings me back to Hogwarts, to those horrible nights, in which Pansy was the only person reminding me I was still human. That I was still lovable, no matter how low I sunk, no matter what horrible things I had to do. I feel her take a deep breath.

‘How’s Granger?’ I ask, wishing nothing more than to change the subject.

Pansy laughs. It’s a bright, soft laugh, the kind of laugh only possible after the War.

‘Are you ever going to call my wife by her given name?’ 

It’s not that I don’t want to. It is but simple force of habit. Believe me, I had my share of doubts about them getting married. But after a year of seeing them together, I’m prepared to admit I was wrong. Granger is the best thing to ever happen to Pansy. People have this idea that Pansy is a horrible person, but I wouldn’t be here without her. I’ll never have what she has, but I’m glad one of us is happy. 

‘She’s fine,’ Pansy’s fingernails caress my hair. ‘A bit worried about her best friend going all suicidal saviour again.’

‘What?!’ I lift my head up, heart climbing up my throat.

Pansy looks thoroughly unphased by my way too intense reaction.

‘Potter has gone back to his…’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘How shall I put it? Reckless Fucker Who Lived ways. Hermione’s been worried sick. He’s been to St. Mungos 3 times in the last week. And before that-’

‘He’s hurt?’

My stomach clenches.

‘Spell damage. Auror related injuries. I don’t know the specifics, but the last one had Hermione sleeping over at the hospital. He’s out of danger now, back to work. But that’s what got me thinking, because he was acting out and you were here, like you’re back on house arrest, but instead you’re probably just avoiding him-’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘You sure about that, hon?’ Pansy pins me down with her hard gaze. ‘Because he’s either fucking everything that moves and making headlines pertaining the size of his cock, or trying his best to get killed. I’m guessing you’re the reason behind both.’

I open & close my mouth, then open it again.

‘You’re guessing wrong.’

‘Hermione thinks I’m right.’

‘Of course she does. What’s it to me?’

‘Save me the bulshit, Draco. I’ve known you since you were 3 years old. This is Potter we're talking about. You’re in love with him.’

‘I think that’s been established.’

‘Clearly it hasn’t. Have you told him?’

I stare at her.

She stares back at me.

We Slytherins are great at this staring thing. 

Pansy ends the staring contest by pressing her fingers to her temple, like I’m giving her an especially atrocious migraine. 

‘Has it occurred to you that he- oh no, don’t interrupt me, Draco. I have been keeping up with your pining for years, so you’re going to listen to me now.’

I close my mouth. She gives an exaggerated sigh. Ever the drama queen. One of the reasons I love her. 

‘Has it crossed your rather intoxicated, self-deprecating mind that he, in his own twisted way, might be feeling the same?’

She looks as pained by her own question as I feel. 

‘You think he’s in love with me?’ My question ends on a rather deranged laugh.

She looks uncomfortable for the first time.

‘It has come to my attention recently, that it might be a very logical reason for his… behaviour.’

I sense Granger’s hand, or should I say reasoning, behind every word she’s just said.

‘That’s fucking absurd,’ I say, realising I’m pacing the room, although I don’t remember standing up. ‘You’re the one who warned me- you said it yourself, he doesn't care about anyone, he fucks them, then leaves them-’

‘Not you, Draco. How long has this been going on?’

I stare at my neatly socked feet. Seven months. Two weeks. 3 days. Whatever hours are right about now. Give or take. 

‘I’m not counting.’ I say.

Pansy laughs. Yeah, I lied. I only do it with her, because she always knows. And Potter. I lie to him too & he always knows. 

‘I can’t tell him. I don’t think I would be able to bear the rejection.’

‘He would be a fool to reject you.’

‘You already think he’s a fool.’

‘Well, yes. He’d be more of one. Plus, he’d make an enemy out of me for the rest of his miserable life.’

‘It’s okay, Pans. I just need to not see him again. I can’t be around him. I need to forget about him. Move on.’

She gives me a long look that says it all. Mainly that if I was to forget him, I would have. Ten fucking years is a long time to want someone. It’s pitiful. Another reason I can’t tell him. Or allow myself to fill in the blanks of that night. Whatever he was about to say. Whatever I felt he might say. It’s probably all in my head. 

Pansy is silent. She lets me cuddle against her, but I can tell by her distant, calculating look, that she’s on to something. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. 

***

‘Listen up, you golden fuck.’

I’m staring at my half-finished drink when I recognize the cold cheeky voice, right before my eyes land on a pair of high heels like a red menace. 

I lift my eyes up to find my best friend’s wife looking down at me.

‘Parkinson.’

In fact, it’s Granger-Parkinson, but I never got around to saying it out loud. Her smile bares a row of perfect white teeth. 

‘It's me, your long lost love.’ 

She does wear her sarcasm as well as her expensive designer clothes. I only know of one other person who wears it better, but I can’t bring myself to think about him right now. Or ever. His silence the last few weeks has made that abundantly clear. 

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ I say in my best mock-nice tone. You know, the tone I always use when I am forced to talk to her, which, if you ask me, happens way more often than it should. 

It goes without saying that my efforts are basically useless. Parkinson never bothers disguising her contempt for anything, much less her least favourite person in the world, aka, me. 

‘You couldn’t possibly give me any pleasure.’ She says accordingly. Her mouth is all disdain when she adds, ‘I'm not here to make chit-chat.’

Like that would ever happen. I’m surprised to realise that I know why she’s here. There’s only one person of interest we share other than Hermione, and I’ve seen Hermione barely an hour ago. 

‘Look, I haven’t seen him for weeks- he’s probably avoiding-’

Pansy lifts up her well-manicured hand, palm up towards me.

‘Cut the bulshit, Potter,’ she says in a crisp tone, taking the empty seat next to me.

Her face tells me sitting in a bar with Harry Potter is perhaps the last thing she wants to do with her time. 

I watch in resigned silence as she signals the bartender and asks for a dry Martini. The drink is set between us and she turns her steely dark eyes onto me. I feel exactly like the single olive in her drink. Pierced through and through. 

‘I know the new improved you doesn’t give a single fuck about people's feelings. Maybe you're trying to even the scales out, because of that one time you played the fucking martyr, died for everyone and all that noble crap. Very commendable. But Draco's starting to look like collateral damage and that pisses me off.’

She’s so spot on about nearly everything that I decide to pretend I don’t know what she means.

‘What are you on about?’

Her fancy black-rimmed glasses make her look like a wicked bird of prey, which I find to be a fair warning to anyone crossing her path. Too bad her best friend doesn’t come with the same kind of warnings up front. Not that those would ever work on me. My decades-long addiction to one Draco Malfoy won’t budge either way. 

Speaking of, I tune in just in time to hear what she came here to tell me:

‘Fuck your pretty blonde boys and leave Draco alone.’

I take a sip of my drink. Firewhisky, of course. His favourite. I find myself smirking. 

‘Draco is a pretty blonde.’ I say it like the jackass I, apparently, am. 

She looks as impressed by this as she did that one time I saved the world. Which is: not in the least.

‘Your prefered type is famously known, Potter.’ She drawls. 

I wonder if this way of speaking is required of Slytherins or if it just rubs on them the longer they spend with each other. Either way, it makes me feel on edge. 

‘Draco looks better than all of those poor things you drag after you.’ Parkinson swallows her Martini in one go. ‘Mess around with those surrogates and leave the real deal alone.’ 

She’s already opening up her purse to pay and leave when I manage to speak.

‘You seem to be under the impression that I’m going to take your advice on my sex life-’

She turns to me so fast I nearly jump off my seat.

‘Get a therapist if you want advice, Potter. This is a threat. I will make the rest of your life a living hell. Leave Draco alone.’

Believe me, you don’t want to be on the other side of the look she’s just given me. And this is coming from someone who’s been eye to eye with Voldemort. She sets the money on the counter. 

I pick up my glass, give it a little twirl. 

‘You should probably tell your best friend to stop enjoying the chase. He gets off on it. He always did.’

She’s already standing up, but that makes her pause.

‘You don't know a single thing about him.’

And doesn’t that hurt like a fucking hex to the heart. I lean back, still twirling his favourite drink in my hand. I like the memories it brings better than its actual taste.

‘Maybe. He might not want me for a fucking relationship, but I know what he likes all right.’ 

I give her my best smile, even if smiling is the last thing I feel like doing right now. 

She eyes me intently. For a moment, she kinda looks like Hermione. Seeing things I’m not. Apparently, marriage does that to people. She sits down again, looking exasperated.

‘For reasons I can’t fathom, men fall down on their knees for you. So pick up a replacement and stick with it, or don’t. If you’re not serious about Draco, just get the fuck away from him or this time I won’t need to hand you over to a lame excuse of a Dark Lord, I’ll finish you myself.’

There’s no doubt in my mind that she means every word. But something about what she’s just said hits closer to home.

‘Not that it's any of your business, but you shouldn't believe everything you read in those magazines.’

She gives me a smile that could rival the Cheshire cat’s. Wonder if she knows who that is. 

‘Oh, you mean you're not the Golden Boy turned playboy, fucking his way through every gay bar in London?’

‘Was,’ I say. And it feels good to admit it out loud. ‘Past sentence.’ I add, for good measure.

Pansy presses two fingers to the sides of her nose like I’m a particular brand of nuisance she despises. She looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. A humourless laugh escapes her lips. 

‘You're only seeing Draco.’

It’s not a question. I don’t need to tell her anything else, but I feel like doing it all the same.

‘Seven and a half months, give or take.’ I shrug. ‘If you care to know.’

She doesn’t even blink. Her long fingernail clinks on the wood of the counter.

‘All those front covers-’

‘Funny thing, really,’ I set my now empty glass on the counter. ‘I give the press what they want, they take the picture, I dump the bloke- everyone gets off my back. You do the math. Or the arithmancy, whatever does it for you.’

She narrows her eyes.

‘Such an elaborate game, Potter. Yet, you let Draco believe you're still fucking everything that moves.’

‘I guess he also doesn’t know me as well as he thinks.’ I mutter. 

I don’t expect the admission to hurt as much as it does. But that’s just the whole thing, isn’t it? I never expected him to come close enough to matter. Much less to hurt me. 

Pansy’s eyes acess me. 

‘You're still shit in my book. Why would you let him think you don't care?’

It’s my turn to laugh. It comes out loud and slightly crazed, like it doesn’t belong to me. 

‘He's the one who needs to be drunk out of his mind to say yes to me- He hates that he wants me for a fuck. I'm just giving him one more reason to.’

I look at her, and for a moment none of us say a word. This is by far the longest conversation I’ve had with Parkinson. And it’s all about the one person I never discuss with any of my closest friends. Not even Hermione. Now her wife is in on the only secret I’ve been keeping. The irony is not lost on me. 

Pansy Granger-Parkinson seems to be at a loss for words. Which is something I didn’t even know was possible. She recovers quickly though.

‘You really don't get it do you?’ She asks. ‘Some people, my wife included, believe you have an actual brain.’ 

The way she’s looking at me is so serious, it nearly scares me.

‘You've known Draco almost all your life. You've watched him for the better part of it. Just put the fucking pieces together.’ 

I look at her, at a loss. 

‘Draco is my best friend,’ she says, then stands up. I realise that this is the first time she’s saying something to me not out of spite or hate or even indifference. There is real care behind her words, even behind her usually unreadable eyes. 

‘He’s the only one I had for years.’ There’s some kind of emotion in the way she says it. It’s fleeting, but there. I realise I’m probably taking a peak at the person Hermione fell for. The illusion takes no time fading away. Parkinson presses her lips together. 

‘Fix it. Or you’re going to wish you had stayed dead.’ 

She’s about to leave, but turns again on her heels to give me a once over. 

‘Do I need to tell you that this conversation never happened?’

I know better than to make a joke. So I nod, then ask mildly.

‘What conversation?’

I think I see the shadow of a smile on her lips, but I’m pretty sure I imagined it. 

She takes off her fancy glasses and slips a pair of even fancier sunglasses on her nose, imperiously walking out the door. 

I finally dare to take a deep breath. My heart feels like it’s about to climb up my throat. 

‘Well, fuck.’

***

I’m fine. I am fine. I am fucking fine. 

This is what I tell myself as I make my way inside the little Muggle coffee shop Harry Potter chose for our first official date. You read that right. _Date_. The bastard had the nerve to use the damned word. 

He owled me 3 days ago. I was about to _Incendio_ the letter just like I did with all of the others, but the sight of his terrible writing, spelling my name just _Draco_ (when before it had said, impersonally, DM) was way too much. 

He wanted to meet me. Not at night, not in a club, but for a _date_ , during the afternoon. In broad daylight. For a cup of tea, of all things. 

_Fucking tea._

Of course my first impulse was to blatantly ignore him. I had been doing that a lot and that plan was going just fine. By fine I mean I was about to lose what was left of my fucking mind. But his owl was quite stubborn (figures), staring hard at me while I scribbled all kinds of notes in answer, ending up with a piece of parchment that read only: 

_Yes. DM._

And now here I am, wishing my answer had been my first try: 

_Go fuck yourself. DM._

Potter is sitting at a table, in a quiet cozy corner, away from the windows. I get the feeling he chose it on purpose. It feels secluded, hidden from possible prying eyes. So he wants to meet me in public; he just doesn’t want to be seen with me. I have half a mind to turn and leave when he looks up. His eyes meet mine. There’s a livid and slightly pink gash cutting across his left cheek. It’s nearly healed, but clearly recent. It changes his whole expression to one torn between a complete stranger and an older version of this person I knew almost all of my life. He holds my gaze as I walk over, trying my best to pretend this is not a huge mistake. 

I realise that since this thing between us started, I never saw him in daylight. He’s wearing Muggle clothes, but they’re not his club clothes (skintight jeans, the even tighter shirts stretching nicely across his chest, his usual garb for picking up not-so-innocent blondes). Instead of those, he’s using plain clothes, maybe they’re his weekend, spend-time-with-his-friends type of clothes. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that he looks good. His dark hair looks bright, even if as untidy as ever. The green in his eyes looks greener somehow. Maybe it has something to do with the turtle neck, cozy green sweater he is wearing. I can barely stand to look at him. 

I take off my heavy winter coat and take a seat across the table, feeling his eyes on me. The waitress comes over and I ask her for a cup of strong Earl Grey. He’s already holding a cup of warm coffee in his hands. Neither of us says a word. 

The waitress brings me the tea. I pour it slowly, stirr my cup. I watch the vapor rising from it. And all the while I am aware of Harry Potter, staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Maybe he is. I’m not wearing my club clothes either. I know exactly how I look with my Gucci white shirt, grey suspenders, a knitted charcoal coat from Hermès (a gift from Pansy). I spent an hour deciding what to wear. I wanted to look good, but also like he couldn’t hurt me even if he tried very hard. I think I managed. 

I finally take my eyes off the tea and find him still looking at me. 

‘Ran out of new boys to fuck?’ My tone is mild. I’m surprised at how cool and composed I sound after all these weeks of losing my shit. 

Potter looks… I have no idea how he looks because I never saw him looking like this. Maybe it’s the daylight. Or the fact that we’re having tea instead of Firewhisky. I have no field guide for what’s happening here. 

He’s looking at me with a ton of purpose and the greenest eyes ever. He sets his coffee on the table.

‘Give me 5 minutes of your time, Draco. No alcohol. No fuckups.’ 

I swallow. He’s all business, but at the same time not at all. He’s just serious. The most serious I ever saw him, and that’s counting some post-War speeches & the occasional work-related meeting. He’s been so many things with me, but he’s never been serious. I realise just how serious he is about whatever this is when he waves his hand, wandlessly putting up a silencing charm around our table. He takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth. Closes it. I’ve never seen him act this… hesitant. It makes quick work of spiking my nerves even more. 

‘How do you feel about me?’ He asks me, point blank. 

I actually laugh in his face. 

‘I’m leaving.’ Is what I tell him.

I’m about to stand up and make good on it when he says: 

‘Cause you’re like... an addiction to me.’ 

He says it first to the table, then he looks up at me.

‘You’re more than an addiction. You’re- I had a taste of you seven months ago and that was it for me.’

Wait, what? Seven?... He knows how long we've?- My thoughts are in a complete disarray. I stay silent while I search for something to say that won’t sound completely pathetic.

‘Is that what you tell yourself when you need to go to sleep?’ I ask. ‘That you’re just addicted to fucking with people’s heads?’

He blanches. The terrible gash on his face looks even more white. Apparently he wasn’t expecting me to be this straightforward. I don’t blame him, I’m quite surprised at myself.

‘I didn’t know-’ He swallows, hard. ‘You fuck with my head too.’

The simple admission unlocks something in me. 

‘It’s because I try so hard,’ I say mockingly. But my chest is hurting. 

His hand reaches over the table, fingers inching closer to mine. I take my hand away. 

‘Fuck, Draco.’ He sighs. ‘Just hear me out. I haven’t fucked anyone else in months. Only you.’ 

I swear my mouth hangs open for a full 20 seconds. Nothing comes out of it.

‘You want another medal for that great accomplishment?’ I ask, when my words finally catch up with my brain and probably my heart. ‘The Golden Playboy manages to keep it in his pants-’ My tone is now high pitched, and I’m beyond thankful for the silencing charm. 

His fingers curl on the table. 

‘Don’t be a jerk. They were just a game, Draco. I didn’t even want to- all those men, they were just this thing, to get to you. You’re insufferable and arrogant and-’

Heat rises to my cheeks. 

‘You think insulting me is going to make your case?’ 

But he keeps speaking over me

‘And you don’t let people in easily. I don’t know why, but that gets me going like- Fuck. It’s not just sex for me.’ 

‘So you get off on being treated like shit?’ My laugh is something caught between surprise and shock. ‘That’s fucking healthy.’

His hand is still on the table. I lift my eyes from it to look at him.

‘But that’s the thing,’ He says, voice so quiet. His whole expression softens. ‘You don’t treat me like shit. At least you haven’t, not in years. And definitely not as long as we’ve been…’ 

He seems to be searching for this word we don’t say, this word filled with impossible things. I’m here hoping and dreading that he might find it.

‘Whatever we’re being.’ He finishes, eyeing me cautiously. 

My mind draws a complete blank. We stare at each other in silence. 

‘I like the fact that you’re cold with almost everyone… but not with me.’ He says this in a rush, like he needs to get it out of his system. 

He’s right. And telling him so is out of the question so I just stare at him. He takes a deep breath, his cheeks turning slightly red.

‘I like how you are… when you’re with me. You’re all posh and sometimes you drive me around the bend - but that’s not all that you are. To me, I mean.’

Somehow my hand has come back to the table and my fingers are mere inches away from his. We don’t move any further. 

Potter is far from stupid, but there is no way in hell he came to this beautiful conclusion without some help from the only other person who actually knows I have feelings.

‘What exactly did _she_ tell you?’ I ask, feeling like myself for a second.

He also looks like himself again. He chuckles. Shakes his head.

‘Nothing you wouldn’t wholeheartedly agree on.’ 

There’s a hint of a smile there, when he looks at me. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that this is the longest we’ve talked to each other out of bed. Or in it, for that matter. So I say nothing.

‘She said I was a fucking jerk. And, you know, the usual life threat. She meant it, though. She cares for you.’ 

‘Nothing else?’

‘She just- She told me to put the fucking pieces together. And I- I did.’

It’s definitely a smile, now. It forms a tiny dimple on his non-scarred cheek.

‘I know you’re not fucking anyone else either, Draco. I’ve known it since the first time. And it definitely isn’t for lack of options. Which means… you’ve been throwing them down.’

I sip my tea just to have something to do with my hands. When I set the cup on the saucer it clinks brightly between us.

‘I could have anyone.’ 

I’m holding my head up high when I say it. I can feel the tension in my shoulders.

‘You think I don’t know that?’ He asks me. His hand reaches out again and finds mine. This time, I don’t recoil from it. His fingers cover mine. His hand is as warm as I remember. As steady.

‘But you don’t want them.’ He says softly. ‘You think you’re behind this wall… that no one sees you. But I see the way you look at me. There’s no wall, sometimes. I like it. I like it when there’s no wall.’

He smiles, almost shyly. It’s so unusual in him I just stare. And stare some more. This is what he means. No walls, because I can’t bring myself to put them up with him. 

I’m so tired of pretending. So tired of fighting it. So tired of feeling cold. 

‘Don’t make me regret this.’ I say. I feel raw, turned inside out. ‘Just don’t.’

I’m feeling so vulnerable right now. I try to remove my hand, but his fingers hang on tighter. And it feels good. All this touching, in broad daylight, it’s so different from everything we’ve done before.

‘I won’t.’

He looks earnest, almost solemn. He knows what I mean. He knows what’s at stake. He’s known it since all of this began.

‘I mean it.’ 

I take my hand away. He lets it go this time. I make myself look right into his eyes.

‘Fuck me, but don’t fuck with me.’ I whisper.

What I mean is: don’t fucking break my heart.

I think he knows. Because he looks very serious. 

‘I’m interested in more than fucking, Draco. Casual is fine enough, but we both know it’s not what we are, at least not together. We’re not casual.’

I swallow. 

‘No. We’re not casual.’ I agree.

He gives me a half-smile.

‘We tried casual. It didn’t work. We just ended up hurting each other.’

I nod. I like that he’s not apologising. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel relieved. I feel like I’ve spent all my life apologising for every wrong thing I did. For every mistake, even mistakes that preceded me, even mistakes I wasn’t able to avoid. Somehow, he seems to get that sorry is a loaded word between us. 

‘I don’t want to hurt you again. But they say that happens in every romantic relationship, anyway.’

He laughs. It’s a nervous laugh. 

‘Romantic relationship.’ I repeat after him, like I have run out of all my previously extensive vocabulary.

‘Yeah. That’s what Parkinson- I mean, Granger-Parkinson-’

‘Oh for Salazar’s sake, just call her Pansy.’ 

He really laughs this time. A full, bright, belly laugh. I can’t seem to stop the smile spreading on my lips. 

‘That’s what she helped me understand. That all this time I wanted more. From you. With you. So, there’s that. I want a relationship. I would like to date you. Exclusively.’

I have no script for the kind of talk we’re having. 

‘So… monogamy?’ My eyebrows rise. I’m still smiling, though, and seemingly unable to stop. ‘Your fans will be deeply disappointed. Not to mention the press-’

‘Well, fuck them.’ He chortles. ‘Draco, you know I’m terrible at non-monogamy. Every one of those blokes is better off without me. It’s not really my thing. Unless- do you want to be non-monogamous? We could try- that Muggle thing-’

‘Polyamory. Blaise’s a big fan. He’d kill me if he heard me right now. Something about the word fan being completely inadequa-’

‘Is that what you want?’ Potter’s eyes are wide. ‘Do you- I mean- if you want, I mean, we could try… the poly stuff?’

I almost laugh at the sort of terrified look on his face. 

‘To be honest, I think I’m done with non-monogamy, Potter. Ethical or otherwise.’

He seems relieved. My tea is cold, his coffee forgotten. Now that we’re really looking at each other, neither of us seems to be able to stop.

‘Does that mean?...’

He lets the question linger, open-ended. It’s up for me to name what I want. What I have always wanted from him. With him. 

‘That I would be open to the idea of an exclusive romantic relationship with you. Yes.’

It’s like lifting a heavy weight from my chest. I’m not sentimental, but I swear his smile rivals the sun. You know, if you could look at the sun. Which you can, but you shouldn’t. Salazar, that’s fucking cheesy and I need to _Obliviate_ myself.

‘Oh. Wow.’ Is what Potter says. He looks slightly awestruck. ‘So… er- let me just make sure that we’re on the same page here. You know, for the sake of clear communication. We want to date each other. That means we tell our friends. And we go on dates. Dinner, movies, Quidditch. Not necessarily in this order. Maybe we hold hands in public, that sort of thing. Unless- what’s your take on PDA?’

He’s clearly babbling now. Of course he’d be the type of person who babbles. I just never thought that he would with me. 

‘You know what my take on PDA is, Potter.’ I say in my usual drawl.

He actually smirks at me and it sends a jolt to my nervous system. And other places too. 

‘You should probably call me Harry, you know. Maybe save the Potter for bed-play. 

I should have some sort of comeback, but my brain is currently damaged. I simply gawk at him. He grins.

‘So dating it is.’ His hand is back on mine, over the table. ‘It will involve some arguments too. You’re gonna hate me sometimes, I’m gonna hate you too.’

‘Hating on each other and arguments? I don’t think we need a change in relationship status for that.’

‘I’m just saying that we’re gonna hurt each other. Everyone does. So I’m not going to promise that I won’t. But I’ll try my best. I want this.’

And suddenly I remember what’s wrong with this scenario. My shoulders tense. I take my hand away again.

‘And how do you plan on doing that?’ I ask, cold seeping into my voice, my body. ‘You don’t even want to be seen with me.’

It’s his time to gape at me.

‘That’s- what?’

‘You heard me.’

‘What do you mean? Are you serious?’

I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not letting his all too innocent look stop me from addressing this. 

‘I know what a fucking back door implies, _Harry_. And you never used that with all the others-’

He actually laughs at that. My first instinct is to be mad at him. But I quickly realise it’s a bewildered laugh. Like the thought had never crossed his mind.

‘Merlin, is that what you think? That I’m ashamed to be seen with you?’

‘What else?-’

‘Privacy, Draco. I didn’t want them messing with us. With you. Because, contrary to what you think, I do care about you. You’re not a hookup. You were never a hookup. I didn’t want them nosing around your life, harassing you or bothering you with invasive questions. I know about the crap they put you through after the War. No matter how much I hate it, anyone who dates me will have the press on them. I wanted us to be away from all of that bulshit, at least until we knew what we were doing.’

He finishes his speech, quite out of breath. I open my mouth. Then close it. I seem to be doing that a lot. Everything he’s just said makes sense. It’s probably the same reason he chose this secluded table for us. I’ve been such a fool. 

But he’s still looking at me, worried. 

‘I’m not ashamed to be seen with you. Are you?’

‘Of course not.’ I say tersely. The mere idea is absurd. 

He gives me a slow smile. The scar on his face must hurt right then for he immediately flinches. Without thinking, I reach out and my fingers touch the skin of his face, not on the scar, but on the other cheek. He looks fully surprised. Then he closes his eyes, leans into the touch.

‘Pansy told me.’ I whisper. ‘About your injuries.’

He opens his eyes. 

‘I just needed- I needed to feel something. To make it stop.’

‘To make what stop?’

‘You. Inside my head. All the fucking time.’

We stay silent. I don’t tell him about my coping mechanisms for those weeks. Maybe one day I will, but not right now. Instead I shift my gaze to his newest scar.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Yeah.’ He sighs. ‘But other things hurt more. You have to know, Draco. Surely you know.’

And in that pause, in that space where he says nothing at all, I hear it. Everything he’s not saying for fear of scaring me away. And it probably would, so I’m glad he doesn’t say it.

‘I do. I know.’

He turns his face and kisses my fingers softly.

‘Good. That’s good.’ 

I’m not sentimental, but this might be the happiest day of my life. 

And, as it turns out, Harry Potter is definitely my cup of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know in the comments what you thought! How was my first Pansy?  
> Hope everyone is doing as okay as possible during this hard times.  
> I write all my drarry listening to a playlist I put together on spotify. You can listen to it here (order by recent to get the songs I used on this one): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1WIUCniU7D9zecJSXc1FxE?si=dEoCBItZQ_2F6vFZ08HB2A
> 
> The song that inspired this story the most is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lp-7q0oPQ24


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